From the orientation of the seldom utilized primary kitchen arrived a metallic resonance—and giggling.
Luminous, unconstrained, youth-like giggling.
Nathan trailed the acoustic.
The customary scent of wax and lavender cleanser vanished, substituted by extract and liquefied butter.
When he attained the threshold, he went motionless.
Powder blanketed the floor.
Cracked shells dotted the dark stone counter.
Milk pooled near the basin.
In the center of it all stood Ethan and Owen, donning oversized protection garments, visages streaked with cacao.
And beside them was Grace Mitchell, the youthful domestic worker engaged just a month previously.
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